


Crowns and sons, gold and blood

by Elesianne



Series: Stories for Fëanorian week 2017 [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (political and otherwise), Curufin being Curufin, Drama in Nargothrond, First Age, Gen, M/M, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: A private discussion with the king of Nargothrond goes awry in a way Curufin didn't anticipate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has something to do with [Fëanorian week](https://feanorianweek.tumblr.com/) prompts Celebrimbor, manipulation and ruling of Nargothrond. My starting point for this fic was that prior to Beren's arrival in Nargothrond, Curufin and Celegorm were mostly good guests and allies to Finrod (this much is canon) but that they didn't always find it very easy. Celebrimbor, meanwhile, became very close with Finrod.
> 
> Warnings: a bit of violence and blood. Blood is even in the title this time. (For some reason I have to warn for blood for half my fics this week... who to be concerned about, me or these characters?)
> 
> This is Gen on the surface but if you are severely allergic to slash it might be best to give this fic a miss.

Curufin waits by the door of the council chamber while other advisors and commanders file out, a handful staying behind to exchange a few words with the king. Curufin curbs his impatience and maintains an impassive expression, for it suits him to wait the longest and speak with Finrod in private.

Curufin's blood is just as royal as Finrod's, if not more, though he wears a slender circlet instead of a crown. He has no intention of joining the ranks of his cousin's fawning hangers-on, and he spares those no glance when they leave the room, his eyes on the king who is alone at last. With a final glance at the papers before him, Finrod leaves his place at the head of the long table and walks over to Curufin with an enquiring look.

'I would talk with you in private, cousin', Curufin says. _Cousin_ , not _my lord_ or _your highness_ or _your majesty_ , for there are no titles between them. It was the first challenge Curufin posed to Finrod when he arrived with his brother and their people, homeless and weary from hardship and loss. Curufin and Celegorm were landless lords seeking help from Finrod the great king, yet from the day of their arrival they have addressed him only as cousin.

Finrod has given no indication of requiring or even desiring a title from Curufin, then or now.

'If it does not displease you, may we walk together to my chambers and speak there?' he asks Curufin. 'I have spent a long day in this room, and I am heartily sick of the sight of it.'

Curufin's gaze flickers to the beautifully carven walls and painted ceiling but only for a moment before it returns to Finrod, golden and glittering in his finery and regalia. 'It does not displease me.' _  
_

They walk along long corridors, high halls and wide stairways to Finrod's apartments, the silence between them broken only in the beginning by Finrod asking whether it is the last, contentious point raised in the meeting that Curufin wishes to discuss. Curufin answers that it is, and that is all that is said before they reach Finrod's rooms.

Curufin cannot help but think once again of how Finrod seems fully content with how things are, with Curufin and his brother and son and their people staying in Nargothrond as his guests, Finrod receiving advice and aid from the sons of Fëanor. Finrod's generosity appears to extend even to not begrudging the influence they have come to wield among his own people.

Curufin is the one who cannot be content with how things lie. He is restless, and he cannot help envying all that Finrod possesses that Celegorm and Curufin, princes of the first house of the Noldor, have lost.

Finrod doesn't take Curufin to his formal reception room, leading him instead his private sitting room, and he doesn't bother to summon a servant but instead goes around the sumptuously decorated room lighting candles himself. Curufin doesn't offer to help. He stands by the door and watches the warm candlelight add another layer of gilt to his cousin's hair.

The blue-glowing lampstones his father invented are more practical, but Curufin must admit that sometimes candles are more appealing. Finrod lights unnecessarily, ridiculously many of them until the whole room glows softly, and the king most brightly of all the golden things.

'Do not think that I do not appreciate your admiration, but I must say, there are times when I think you spend too little time thinking about your wife and too much time looking at me', says Finrod serenely as he returns to Curufin, laying down the last candle on a low cupboard beside the door.

Curufin is taken aback but hastens to hide it behind his practised mask of mocking amusement, and to answer Finrod with equal frankness and equanimity. 'Why would I think of my wife when she wants nothing to do with me, and is half a world away besides?'

'Ah.' A beatific smile. 'Do forgive me, I forgot that you did not part on the best of terms. The memory of it must pain you.

Amazement at how wrong he has been fills Curufin's mind, for it seems that Finrod is not as content with Curufin's presence and behaviour as he has appeared to be, and that he has not lost the Noldorin fire that in their youth used to simmer in him, deep beneath the surface but still there.

This pleases Curufin greatly; a Finrod offering to trade barbs is a much more tolerable Finrod than one who seems nothing but gentle and wise and serene.

'The memory of my wife pains me no more than the memory of your sweetheart refusing to come with you must pain you', he answers, with a decidedly less beneficent smile than his cousin's. He doesn't like to speak of his wife, not even to think of her, in truth. But Finrod need not know that.

He is pleased to see that his words have the desired effect: Finrod flushes and appears discombobulated. _You should not play this game with me, cousin,_ Curufin thinks, smiling more widely, _for you are a novice at it and I a master._

'We were not married', replies Finrod defensively.

'Oh, but that is no excuse. You were betrothed, and even for the law-abiding Vanyar, there was no law against getting married quickly and then coming to Beleriand together. Just think of it. Had Amárië come with you, you might have your own son ruling by your side instead of that milksop boy of your brother's. Would that not be lovely?'

'It might be. Then again, fathers and sons do not always live in harmony, do they? And it can be a cause of great grief for the father.'

Finrod bows his head of gold and removes his crown, a plain, simple thing compared to the magnificent necklace that adorns his throat. He sets it down on the cupboard next to the candle with a careless motion; as the crown clatters down, for a moment its smooth golden surface reflects the single flame and turns into a sea of fire.

Running a hand through the long fall of his hair, his composure restored now while Curufin seethes, the king continues, 'I am sorry to have seen a rift developing between you and Celebrimbor lately. Perhaps it will console you to know that I have given him much good advice concerning you.'

They are standing quite close to each other now; Finrod's eyes are on Curufin's, calm on furious. Curufin takes a step closer and Finrod doesn't back away; Curufin lunges, grabs him by the necklace and pushes him against the door.

Blue eyes showing nothing but mild curiosity, Finrod doesn't fight back or shout out to the guards just outside the door.

' _I think_ that you spend too much time with my son', Curufin says, trying not to notice how warm the jewels and gold are and how soft is his cousin's skin under his fingers.

'Or perhaps you spend too little.'

Curufin tightens his hold, and a single drop of blood appears on the fine throat amidst the gemstones and the gold.

'It seems that there are sharp points in the works of the Naugrim', he observes. Finrod is perfectly motionless now, though he still doesn't look scared.

 _Hit me, curse me, push me away, pull me closer – do anything other than look at me with such dispassion,_ Curufin exhorts in his mind.

'Few things are beautiful without any hard or dangerous edges', Finrod replies, and Curufin cannot help but agree. After all, it seems that even Finrod is not without them.

It makes him all the more fascinating to Curufin. He picks up the drop of blood on his fingertip and tells Finrod that red suits him. 'You should wear it more it often.'

'Red suits you too', Finrod says and raises a hand to stroke the scarlet silk of Curufin's sleeve close to where Curufin's fingers still hold their tight grip on the Nauglamír. 'Which is fortunate for you, since you would wear it anyway in memory of your father. Finrod the Faithful I have been called, but you were far more faithful to your father than I to mine.'

Finrod slides his hand to Curufin's, not to pull it away but in a touch as soft as a lover's; Curufin lets go of him suddenly, and Finrod takes a step to the side, slowly enough to imbue it with his innate grace and make it look like he's still not trying to escape though he has every reason to.

'You still are faithful to Fëanáro, are you not, Atarinkë? As much as you can be, things being as they are.'

Curufin realises that Finrod only stepped away to land the final blow from a safe distance, his words armed with the language of their youth.

Curufin has no answer to give but for a look of anger and hatred.

'I think it best that we postpone our discussion until tomorrow, don't you?' Finrod asks, and one of his hands flits to his throat and the faint bruises forming there. He draws it away quickly, but it has already revealed that his absolute calm is only a facade.

It brings a rush of satisfaction to Curufin, and he is able to summon a smile, bright and joyless. 'I agree, my lord.' It easy to grant Finrod the title at this moment when it cannot sound like anything but mockery.

Finrod nods, and another drop of blood appears on his throat and stains a golden curlicue of the necklace, drawing Curufin's eye.

Finrod's next words make his gaze snap back to the king's face in fury.

'Goodnight, Curufinwë. Give Tyelperinquar my regards if by chance you happen to see him before I do.'

A heartbeat passes in tense silence, and then Curufin turns and leaves without a word.

*

 _I should never have gone to his rooms_ , Curufin tells himself when he makes his way to his own chambers. _If I spoke with him only in public places, something like that could not happen._

He is not entirely pleased with this thought, nor is he pleased to find his brother in his room.

'I see you've returned from the scouting trip', he says irritably and strips off the heavy overrobe and rich jewellery that are the trappings of the court and now chafe him, though most of the time he quite enjoys their splendour.

Lounging in front of the fire petting his huge hound, Celegorm grins at Curufin. 'I see you haven't missed me.'

'You missed a council meeting today.'

'I doubt there was anything that required my contribution in particular. Or was there?'

'No.' Curufin thinks of the plans he still needs to discuss with Finrod, then pushes those thoughts aside. 'Did you see Celebrimbor on your way in?'

'No, I didn't.' Celegorm stretches luxuriously, looking like a big dog himself lying on the bearskin before the fireplace. Curufin eyes with distaste the muddy foot and paw prints leading there.

'I take it you haven't seen him today, then', Celegorm states when he finishes his stretching.

'I didn't go to the forges today. I haven't seen him for days, actually. I've been busy working with our cousin.' Curufin takes a seat in a comfortable chair and thinks of what he should have said to Finrod before he left. Leaving the last word to someone else never pleases him.

'You shouldn't let him get to you like that', Celegorm says. His posture is still relaxed and his scratching of Huan's ears seems absent-minded, but his pale eyes are watchful.

'It's that damned serenity of his, how he maintains it even when provoked. I know it is childish, but it makes me want to test the limits of his patience…'

Curufin knows that Celegorm will never rebuke him for being less than diplomatic so it is not so difficult to confess things like this to his brother, though he would not speak thus to anyone else.

He is surprised to see a mild grin of amusement appear on Celegorm's fair face. Celegorm says wryly, 'I meant your son. But it applies to Finrod as well, I suppose. Don't let him get under your skin.'

Curufin shakes his head. 'I'll keep enough of a distance from now on that he can't.'

He says no more and Celegorm doesn't ask, but his gaze dwells on his brother for a long while, curious and assessing.

Curufin doesn't notice it. He stares into the fire and the yellow-red flames remind him of blood on gold, of the flame of a candle reflected on a crown laid aside so carelessly.

**Author's Note:**

> If Curufin's attitude to Finrod and his equanimity reminded some regular readers of mine of Curufin's behaviour in the early chapters of [Sparks fly out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8520295/chapters/19530187), well, what can I say? He has a type. (Not that this story is necessarily connected to Sparks fly out and other stories where Netyarë appears. You can decide for yourselves whether she is the wife Curufin doesn't like to think about.)


End file.
